“Did you not tell the police you made the dead girl’s gown? It could be a clue.”
“What makes you believe I did not tell them?”
“Because if you had, they’d know more about her. Her name, for instance.”
“I assure you, I know nothing of the murdered girl.”
Was she fibbing? Hard to say. Just because someone had the chubby cheeks of a two-year-old didn’t mean they had the conscience to match. “But how is that possible? Surely she came in for fittings, just like I’m doing now.”
“I maintain the utmost discretion when it comes to my customers.”
Discretion? Hardly, if Madame Fayette’s comments about the Italian princess and the gambling courtesan were any indication. “Then I don’t suppose you’ll tell me if the Marquise de la Roque-Fabliau is one of your customers,” Ophelia said. “She’s missing, you know.”
“If my customers request that I keep a secret, why, then I keep a secret,” Madame Fayette said. “Surely, Miss Stonewall, you must appreciate this. One does not sew garments for empresses if one is a—how do you say?—blabbermouth.” She looped her measuring tape around Ophelia’s waist, and squeezed.
Ophelia winced.
“I would be fascinated to discover precisely why it is that you have taken on the duties of an officer of the police,” Madame Fayette said. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must go fetch a few samples for you to view.” She whipped her measuring tape free and hurried out.
Ophelia was left alone with Josie.
As soon as Madame Fayette disappeared, Josie whispered, “Madame does not ever admit to it, but she was, years ago, the costume mistress at l’Opéra de Paris.”
“Indeed?”
“I believed you should know this, because you seem so interested in those gowns. The way they were the same. Madame knows people at the opera house. Many people.”
“She knew the murdered girl, then?”
“Non. She designed that gown based upon measurements given to her by a customer. She never measured or fitted the girl in person. None of us did.”
“But who was the customer?”
“I know not.” Josie pushed a wisp of hair from her eyes. “Is the murderer not . . . caught?”
“No. And I reckon the police are after the wrong murderer. I wonder if the marquis—the father of the Misses Malbert—is mixed up in this. Because his wife, his missing wife, perhaps desired a divorce, and he’s so secretive about whatever he does in that funny workshop of his.” Ophelia clammed up. Josie was so mild a presence, she had been thinking aloud. But she ought not be so trusting.
Ophelia studied Josie. She would’ve been pretty as a picture if she hadn’t appeared so unwholesome. Her ears seemed too large for such a hollow face, and her lips were bloodless, as though she hadn’t enough sleep or enough to eat. But surely Madame Fayette paid her employees a good wage. They were highly skilled workers.
“Would you tell me, Josie . . . the Marquise de la Roque-Fabliau—did she patronize this shop?”
“Non.” Josie lowered her voice still more. “The murderer is not caught? Then I must—I must tell you, Mademoiselle Stonewall. It is something so odd, but Madame Fayette, she will deliver a parcel to a gentleman today.”
“To whom?”
“I know not. The note I saw from him, it was anonymous, but the penmanship was that of a gentleman. His note—bonté divine!—I saw it by mistake as I was bringing it to Madame—his note said it was urgent that he collect a certain parcel that Madame has in her possession. I fear he is the customer who ordered that poor dead girl’s gown.”
“He will come here, to the shop?”
“Oui, today, at twelve o’clock. But please, do not ask me anything more. Poor Maman in the country, she is almost blind from the sewing, and she depends upon the wages that I send. Et my dear brother, he is so mistreated by his master and must leave his place of work. If Madame knew I was speaking of our customers—”
The door swung open. Madame Fayette bustled in, arms piled high with garments. “Now, Miss Stonewall, should we decide upon the ball gown?”